A Good Choice Is No Choice
by Rose O' Sharon
Summary: Sherlock and John are kidnapped by a Lunatic who wants to do what? And what consequence will it have for John?
1. Again, Sod It!

A Good Choice is No Choice

By Rose O' Sharon

Rating: **M for 'Mature'** – Remember, this means **ADULT TYPE STORY**

Style: Slash

Disclaimer: None of the members of Sherlock belongs to me (I'm not sure they'd be happy if they did). Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own them, but I'm borrowing them for now. I will return them when I'm done . . . or out of simple preservation of sanity, they'd grab them and run away while they can. :D

Warnings: Major male/male sex (Johnlock my OTP – For now), The 'F' Bomb is dropped liberally throughout. Mentions of male rape, slightly graphic depictions of torture, mentions of suicide ideation . . . Um, come to think about it, this is actually a rather dark story and if this totally makes you ill, I'd avoid the story or have a friend spoil it for you, because well, there's a third story to this series, and this is kind of necessary to get the whole feeling of that one . . . as the first one was to get the feel of this one . . . but this story now . . .

Summary: Sherlock and John are kidnapped by a Lunatic who wants to do _what_!? And what consequence will it have for John?

Comments: Yes to all comments, as long as they're nicely phrased and if they have nothing to do with the warnings. Seriously, you _**are**_ warned what kind of story this is, so really, paying attention to the warnings is a good thing, 'K? :D

_**This is the second in what I have decided to call the 'Choice' series; the first being No Choice is a Good Choice**_

S/W/S/W

Sherlock opened his eyes and promptly wished he hadn't as he saw that he was in what he could tell from a mere glance was a cell and that he was chained by his wrists, waist, and ankles to the wall. As his aching head and blurry eyes slowly cleared and allowed him to adjust to the dimness of the cell, he looked around and his heart and stomach leapt into his throat as he saw John and his condition.

The older man lay completely naked, his hands handcuffed together to the headrail of a large cot, his legs spread-eagle on the bare mattress, and his ankles chained and shackled to the footrail. A deep bruise spread along the side of his face to his neck and Sherlock saw that even though John's eyes were closed, he was awake.

"John?" He asked, his voice rough from the effects of being drugged unconscious and the worry about why his friend was naked on a cot and yet he was fully dressed chained to the wall. John's eyes opened and he slowly turned his head, as if it ached, over to Sherlock. His blue eyes were open, and Sherlock frowned as he saw that only dullness and pain were reflected back at him.

"You're awake." John blinked and Sherlock's frown deepened as the normally vibrant timbre of John's voice was as hollow and as empty as his eyes. Sherlock resisted the urge to tell him he was speaking the obvious. "Welcome back to the land of the living. As you can probably deduce and/or remember, the plan didn't work."

Sherlock nodded. He did remember, but he also deduced that for some reason, John thought it had been his fault . . . but it hadn't. It hadn't been anyone's fault, really – just bad timing. Neither he nor John had known that the person John had been sent in to impersonate had escaped from the Asian jail only hours before Sherlock and John had been sent into enemy territory, and they'd received Mycroft's text about it five minutes too late for it to have done them any good.

"You did your best," Sherlock said, and John acknowledged it with a shrug, even as Sherlock pulled experimentally on the chains, shackles, and metal bar with which he'd been attached to the wall.

"Looked pretty solid from my point of view," John said almost conversationally. "Nice to see I haven't lost my eye for these kinds of details as I've aged."

Sherlock frowned and wanted to tell John what he thought of his age, but the timing wasn't right, if it ever would be, and he scowled. "I assume, since you were aware before me, that you know why I am fully dressed and you are not?" Sherlock finally addressed the elephant in the room and forced his voice to remain steady.

"Oh," John turned his head away and looked up at the ceiling, where Sherlock had already noted the placement of one of three cameras in the cell as well as two small vents at the top. He'd also seen the speaker in the wall and knew that the chances of there being a microphone or microphones in the room was a foregone conclusion.

"You noticed that," John's voice went flat and reflected no emotion at all, and Sherlock knew that meant that the man was actually quite scared though to someone who didn't know him, it would appear the exact opposite, and his rage grew. If John were frightened as badly as he so obviously was, there was something that was going to happen that John couldn't bear to think about or to deal with.

Sherlock forced himself to listen to what John said rather than try and fight his way from the chains, a useless endeavor at best, but with each word he only grew more and more angry.

"Remember the briefing, Sherlock?" John asked and Sherlock almost growled with impatience. However, he knew that John questioned him not only to put off having to tell him what was going on, but to see if Sherlock had been in any way injured after he'd lost consciousness, and he reigned in his impatience.

"Of course I remember," He looked offended. "Mycroft said the man we were after was a lunatic, and he capitalized the 'L'. Rather dramatic, I thought at the time . . ." he looked down at John. "Though I have since amended my opinion on that."

"Dramatic or not, Mycroft called it. The guy _is_ a lunatic," John's voice dropped. "I met him, obviously, while you were still under the effects of the drug. He dosed you with a higher dose then he did me, specifically so he could talk to me without you interrupting us."

John stopped, and Sherlock nodded. "Obviously. But that still doesn't explain why I am fully clothed and you are not."

"I'm getting to that," John licked his lips. "Apparently the guy is on a serious revenge kick of some kind, and as his Neanderthal-like thugs cheerfully," he shuddered. "Cut off my clothes, he informed me that since we were so obviously together, meaning you and me," his voice broke and he audibly swallowed. "Well, he decided that the best way to get to you was to . . . to fuck me," John looked at the ceiling rather than at Sherlock, and the taller man froze. He'd actually thought that, but he'd been so hoping in this one instance he was wrong. However, John wasn't finished, and the second half of the bomb dropped. "And he's going to make you watch."


	2. I'll Go Insane

**A/N:** Greetings! Sorry this took so long to get to you, but I am always re-writing, writing, revising, and tweaking my stuff to hopefully bring you an intelligent and well-written work, and I totally got caught up in that, adding new parts, taking away parts, and so on and so forth.

First things first: Nothing about them is mine.

Second, REALLY, this IS an 'M' rated story, so really, if your parents would object, and if you aren't old enough to be reading this stuff in your country of origin, use your discretion and your ability to read and choose carefully. :D Remember, I am A Mom and we kind of have very definite opinions on things like this. :D . . . Also, the wanrings are in the first part, so you may want to go review them . . .

Third: (And this is only least in that's it's not the legalese that has to be addressed and mot my personal Feels on the matter): THANK YOU ALL MY FAVORITORS, FOLLOWERS, and REVIEWERS! You are all awesome and appreciated and you hold my inbox hostage after each part I post to make sure that I am pleasing you . . . or at elast, eliciting some kind of emotional response to the characters and the story . . . though, if it's disgust, and you question my parentage and curse at me for even attempting to call myself a writer, well, there is a back button on the site for a reason. :D

S/W/S/W

_"__I'm getting to that," John licked his lips. "Apparently the guy is on a serious revenge kick of some kind, and as his Neanderthal-like thugs cheerfully," he shuddered. "Took off my clothes, he informed me that since we were so obviously together, meaning you and me," his voice broke and he audibly swallowed. "Well, he decided that the best way to get to you was to . . . to fuck me," John looked at the ceiling rather than at Sherlock, and the taller man froze. He'd actually thought that, but he'd been so hoping in this one instance he was wrong. However, John wasn't finished, and the second half of the bomb dropped. "And he's going to make you watch."_

"Make me watch," Sherlock repeated, his voice quiet and strong, and John was glad for that. Sherlock radiated strength, though the cold rage in his eyes warmed John as well and _both_ were exactly what John needed right then to bolster his own waning strength. "You said he wanted revenge. Revenge against what? I have never met the man before Mycroft sent us after him."

"Well, apparently when you destroyed Moriarty's web, you took down part of this guy's organization too and he thinks by doing this he'll get his revenge."

"It all has to come back down to _him_," Sherlock's voice was angry and he clenched his fists. "There are times I really wish I'd never heard of him . . . or better yet, had just let Mycroft kill him when he had the chance," he looked down. "It was just a game . . . a game I thought I could win and I got so caught up in it," he shook his head. "I was such a fool, John."

"You did win, Sherlock," John swallowed and even in his predicament he couldn't allow Sherlock to fester in his hatred. "The Reichenbach. . . Incident . . . assured it."

"Yes, I know," Sherlock's voice was bitter and his frown deepened. "And I'm getting tired of being reminded of it. However, we both know it would have been entirely unnecessary had I simply taken him out at the pool when I had the chance. And now, even months after I finally managed to rid the world of him _and_ his influence, that man is _still_ haunting us. It's not fair, John."

"Well, as you reminded us the last time something like this happened, _life_ isn't fair. But you need to listen to me right now, Sherlock," John's voice booked no room for _not_ listening, and Sherlock focused his incredibly piercing gaze on his friend.

"You know that Lestrade gave us a time. When it passes and he doesn't hear from us, he'll know something went wrong. And you know that neither he _nor_ Mycroft will stop searching for us until they find us. We _both_ have to be alive when he does. _One_ of us is going to have to able to form whole sentences that don't dissolve into gibberish when he does."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock's voice was suddenly sharp, and his eyes narrowed. "You are going to be okay."


	3. Backstory Trauma

A/N: This is going to be a longer chapter than the last two, thank goodness. :D

Reviewers, Favoritors, and Followers, you have my heart!

'M' Rated with warnings in the first part

Characters not mine. They would beg to be put back in the box and never see daylight if they were. :D

S/W/S/W

_"__Sherlock," John shook his head. "I can get through almost anything, we know this, but this," he licked his lips. "I'm not sure about. I . . . I need to tell you this, and dear gods, I hope you can listen without judging me. There . . . there is a period in my military career that can't and never will be, accounted for . . ."_

"Eight months," Sherlock frowned.

"And how in the bloody hell do you know that!?" John couldn't stop himself from asking, and Sherlock sighed.

"Mycroft was having a hard time deciding on whether or not to give us this mission, and I pressed him for an answer. He was looking at your military file. I stole it from him . . ." he rolled his eyes. "I see now that he _let_ me steal it from him," he shook his head. "You named me well, John, as I really _can_ be spectacularly ignorant about some things. Anyway, there is a period of eight months that is completely unaccounted for.

"The only reason for that is an enormously inefficient military clerk and that is extremely unlikely, or there was some kind of what is commonly known as a 'Black Ops operation', which is highly redundant by the way, and it obviously," he nodded at John's shoulder. "Didn't turn out well."

"That's putting it mildly," John's lips narrowed, and he couldn't stop the shudder that passed over him at the memories that suddenly assaulted him. He shut his eyes trying, without much luck, to force the memories away.

"But, John, in Paris, you let me . . ." Sherlock's tone was even and grounding, and John turned toward that voice, and finally opened his eyes.

"I wasn't tied down then, and it was you, Sherlock," he said, his voice rough. "And you were careful with me. You and Mycroft said that Ella was a bad therapist and to fire her, but you have to know, Ella wasn't _completely_ wrong, Sherlock. I _do_ suffer from PTSD, but not from the battlefield, and you and Mycroft weren't wholly right, either. Not _all_ of it was psychosomatic. I _do_ suffer from bad memories of that time. But I could never, never talk about it, because the mission I was on was Classified 'Need to know', and no one, not even Mycroft, needed to know."

"But the only one higher than My . . ." Sherlock would have smacked himself in the forehead, but realized he'd be hitting himself with the chains if he did, which would accomplish nothing. _"That's_ why that man knew who you were in Buckingham Palace!" He exclaimed, and John frantically shushed him. "You took your orders on whatever mission that was directly from the palace, didn't you?" Sherlock was somewhat excited, but immediately mentally grimaced. He realized that it was more than a bit not good to be happy for any reason, especially at that moment, even if he were finally able to solve a puzzle that had been bothering him for quite literally years.

"We were a small group," John explained in a whisper. "And we found out, after we left for the mission, we weren't supposed to return."

"But you did," Sherlock frowned.

"Yes, but it wasn't for several months and only three out of the original eight managed it. Two died before the capture, two died under the torture, and one died in the escape," John swallowed and it seemed unbearably loud and filled with hopeless sorrow. "When the remaining three managed to make it back to the base, not one of us was completely sane.

"I suppose that's why they let us live," he shrugged. "I guess they thought we'd suffered enough. However, we were told, under any circumstances, that if any of us ever talked about the specifics of that mission, we'd be killed."

"So then, this doesn't count as talking about it," Sherlock supplied and John shook his head.

"Not technically," he answered with a small smile, and Sherlock inhaled.

"And what happened once the three . . . you . . . returned?" He tried to keep his voice cool and collected, but there was no way he could disguise his revulsion or anger, and John looked at his friend, the self-proclaimed and way off-the-mark Sociopath, and couldn't stop the small upturn of his lips.

"One killed himself soon after – he just couldn't deal with what happened. The other is a permanent resident of a psychiatric ward, locked inside his own mind. The other of course, is me," he looked up at the ceiling again. "And you _know_ what I am."

Sherlock frowned deeply and gripped the chains in his hands. "You are one of the bravest men I know," he said as he angrily pulled on the chains as if he could yank them from the wall and do one of his dramatic strides to his friend. "You are a _survivor_ and I will _not_ have you thinking anything _less_ of yourself."

"Survivor," John snorted derisively. "Look at me when this is all over and I'm cowering in a corner spouting gibberish in one of the freakin' few languages you _don't_ speak and tell me _then_ how much of a survivor you think I am," his voice was acidic, and his eyes burned with helpless rage.


	4. The Offer

A/N:

1: I am REALLY sorry this has taken me SO long to get out. :( I had a plan for the way the story would go, and then I decided that for angst factor, and to help the third part, it needed to go in a different direction. That being the case, once more I find myself re-writing, re-editing, and revising as well as tweaking some of the other parts that are ALREADY written, though the heart of the story has essentially stayed the same.

As you all know, the creative process is an ongoing adventure, and I hope you all will have patience with me . . .

2: I am also posting this because one of the stories I'm following has completely ticked me off, and I just want to slam the characters in the head with a brick; particularly Sherlock and to a lesser extent, Mycroft. I have decided in defense of John, to torture him and provide some comfort to him . . . *BLINKS* It made sense when I thought of it . . .

Anyway, since I am posting this in a fit of pique, if you happen to see too many errors, please feel free to point them out. However, yes, it's true, I suffer from a severe case of Comma-itis and long sentences that should be broken into little sentences. I'm 46 and have been writing Fanfiction since 1982. I'm fairly certain that's not going to change really soon . . . and I majored in English and Creative Writing in High School and College, and the teachers never seemed to mind as much as Fanfiction PM'ers . . .

3: It's pretty sad when the A/N's are longer than the chapters and I must say tha**t I have been overwhelmed by the attention these stories have gained. I am truly grateful for every review, every follow, and favorite. I REALLY wish I could respond to each and every one of you personally, but know that you have my thanks and gratitude. Also, I have been viewing everyone who has done any of the above three and have been extremely distracted by your pages of favorited stories. Through you I have found some magnificent works!**

Oh, and of course, 'M' and they aren't mine and no money.

**S/W/S/W**

_"__Survivor," John snorted derisively. "Look at me when this is all over and I'm cowering in a corner spouting gibberish in one of the freakin' few languages you don't speak and tell me then how much of a survivor you think I am," his voice was acidic, and his eyes burned with helpless rage._

"I won't let anything happen to you, John," Sherlock promised, and once more John looked away.

"I appreciate that thought, Sherlock, but I don't think you can prevent it," he looked around the room and licked his lips. "Look, usually," John's voice had dropped to a whisper. "Usually I can repress the memories until I can forget them. But Sherlock," his eyes passed around the cement room and landed on the damp walls, the chains, and himself, and was clearly ashamed. "I can feel it already. This is too similar; too much like before. I'm already half gone," he closed his eyes in humiliation. "Sherlock, I don't think I'll be able to repress it again, and if . . . _when_ he touches me and I go into a flashback, I don't know if I'll be able to come out of it."

"You're stronger than you think you are, John," Sherlock affirmed. "I have complete faith in you. And . . ." he swallowed. "And if something happens, I promise you . . ."

"Sherlock," John's smile was soft. "Don't promise what you can't deliver. Just make sure I get a nice room with lots of greenery and visit me once a month. We'll put it all on Mycroft's tab, since he was the one who sent us on this stupid mission in the first place."

John's attempt at a joke was lame at it's absolute best, but Sherlock let his lips quirk upward in acknowledgement, and he closed his eyes. If Mycroft hadn't extracted the promise of helping him on his cases in return for helping him take down Moriarty's web, they never would have been in the situation in the first place.

When he and John got out of the situation, he was personally going to punch his aristocratic, over-bearing, arrogant, sodding brother in the nose and teeth, grab John, and run as far away from the man as far and as fast as they both could get.

Enough _was_ enough.

Sherlock gazed silently at his beaten, scarred, weathered friend, and knew that no one would call him beautiful or even handsome. There was no doubt that he was good-looking, but Sherlock knew that John was the last person people looked at when he and Sherlock were together, _except_ to wonder _why_ they were together. However, he knew, and most people found out too late, that there was a core to John; a hard, steel, double-edged dagger that made up his friend though that dagger was covered in a sheath of pure velvet and Sherlock was not going to let anyone take him away from him again; not Moriarty, not Moran, Not Mycroft, and not this Lunatic.

Sherlock had promised not to let anything happen to John, and no matter what he himself had to do, he would _do_ as he promised.

It was as he made that solemn vow, if not to John, then at least to himself, that the door to the cell opened. He and John looked over as the Lunatic entered the room. He wasn't alone though. He was accompanied by a large primate-shaped man who was taller than Sherlock, twice as wide, and had more muscle than any one man should be able to have and still be able to move.

"Oh," the Lunatic smiled condescendingly. "I hope I didn't interrupt anything," his grin widened. "But, I was off assuring my investors that our little problem of before was solved," his grin widened, and Sherlock's lips narrowed into an impossibly straight line.

"Glad to see that you're finally awake by the way," the Lunatic nodded at Sherlock, then looked back at John. "I'm sure by now that your lover has filled you in on my plans for him. He's actually a little older than I generally like, and most definitely not as good-looking as I generally like . . ."

"Then what about me?" Sherlock asked, and John looked at him horrified.

"Sherlock!" He exclaimed. "No!"


	5. Misdirection

A/N: Here's another chapter and it's longer! :D

Not mine. Never will be and STILL no money.

Still 'M' . . . eventually.

**I REALLY do love all you Reviewers, Followers, and Favoritors! You make my life (and my writing) worthwhile! :D Hugs and Lasagna to you all!**

**S/W/S/W**

_"__Sherlock!" He exclaimed. "No!"_

Sherlock refused to look John in the eyes or to react to him at all, his eyes only on the Lunatic and continued. "I'm younger and am not unattractive . . ."

"True," the man answered, scarily affably, and slowly looked the detective up and down as if he were a piece of meat on a rack. He was obviously seriously considering the offer, but Sherlock's hopes were dashed a moment later as the Lunatic sighed deeply and with obvious regret. "But, you see, while your offer to sacrifice your beautiful Self for the virtue of your man is noble, _you_ are the one I need to punish, not _him._ You see," he strode up to Sherlock and gently stroked his hand down the tall man's face. Before Sherlock could react the Lunatic promptly backhanded him hard enough for Sherlock's head to twist sideways though Sherlock gave no other reaction but the narrowing of his eyes. "By destroying Moriarty and his world, you essentially destroyed _mine_ as well! It's because of _you_ that I have almost nothing left!

"On the other hand, while you may not have an empire," the Lunatic gripped Sherlock's face in bruising fingers and forced him to look over at John. "You _do_ have him and while he's not as young or as pretty as you, he _does_ have some good features . . . _other_ than the mere fact he's yours," he released Sherlock's head and slowly walked back to the foot of the cot where he gazed down at John's naked body.

"I am going to take him, you see, and then I'm going to let you go," he actually giggled. "And then I'll go about my business knowing that I've destroyed you _and_ him. You'll be so busy trying to put each other back together again that you won't have _time_ to try and stop me from doing anything. I'll be safe and happy in the knowledge that when you touch that wonderfully well-hung cock of his, he'll feel me. When he wraps those well-formed arms of his around you, it'll be _me_ he embraces. And when that strong chest is pressed against you, it won't _you_ he'll feel, it'll be _me._ And when those wonderfully expressive eyes are focused on you, it won't be _you_ he sees, it Will. Be. Me,_"_ his grin widened. "And when you kiss those oh-so- delightful lips it won't be _you_ he tastes, it will be _me_ _you'll_ taste. And there's _nothing_ you can say or do that will keep me from taking your little toy."

Sherlock couldn't keep the still-warm memory of his and John's accidental tryst in Paris from surfacing, and hatred, rage, and disgust filled him. However he forced it all down behind what he hoped was a sincerely bland facade until the time came when he'd finally be able to release it so that it'd do some good, and suddenly, a thought occurred to him.

"He's not mine," he said, his voice calm, cold, and almost unaffected.

"Oh, now that's just a _lie,"_ the Lunatic pouted, and Sherlock shook his head.

"He and I are _not_ lovers," Sherlock said. "We _are_ best friends, yes, but as his many women conquests will attest, he is _not_ mine. While it would hurt . . ." Sherlock swallowed the rip of pain that tore through him at his words and he looked coldly at John who had stilled the moment Sherlock started speaking. "To have you do to him what you are thinking, it would hardly do me the injury you believe it will. As John has repeatedly told everyone we've ever even _casually_ run into, he is _not_ gay. He is, in fact as straight as the proverbial arrow, and as for me, I am hardly interested in maintaining _any_ kind of sexual congress with _anyone._"

"It's true," John spoke up, his voice low, and he swallowed. "Sherlock has never, in the entire time I've known him, showed any inclination of _willingly_ engaging in sex . . . with anyone."

"You are a virgin, then?" the man asked and walked back over to Sherlock, almost mesmerized, his interest renewed and Sherlock all but snarled.

"Why does everyone assume that because I have little to no interest in pursuing a sexual relationship with anyone, that I am a virgin?" He snorted. "I am, in fact, _not._ I am, however, skilled and could provide quite a lot of . . . entertainment. Far more than he could," he indicated John, and the Lunatic looked back at John.

"I see," He walked back over to the foot of the cot and gazed down at him, his eyes lit only with the light of pure, undisguised lust. Sherlock's blood boiled in his veins as the man continued. "Have _you_ ever been touched by a man?" His voice was harsh and raspy with his lust, and John couldn't stop his body from shrinking inside himself and he couldn't force himself to speak, though desperately, he tried.

"Oh gods, yes," the Lunatic all but moaned in a parody of the first true words spoken between Sherlock and John, and he completely lost any and all interest in Sherlock. He stroked his fingers over John's foot, up across the shackle that bound his ankle to the bed, and finally touched John's shin. Sherlock knew that he had overplayed his hand and all but cursed himself. Rather than take the Lunatic's attention from John as he had intended, he'd secured it, and John's instinctive and inconvenient reaction to the question had anchored it.


	6. Lost Reality

A/N I am SO sorry! I forgot to put trigger warnings on my chapters! :D I thought the first chapter would take care of it, but um . . . i guess not. Since we've already gotten through the first ones, i'm not going to go back and put warnings on those chapters, but the warning for this one:

**Non-Con touching and PTSD with Torture references**

**'M' Rating involves adult stuff and bad stuff and much much much angst and drama . . .with no let-up in sight soon . . .**

**Not mine and no money from them . . .**

**S/W/S/W**

_"__Oh gods, yes," the Lunatic all but moaned, as he stroked his fingers over John's foot, across the shackle that bound his ankle to the bed, and finally up to John's shin. Sherlock knew that he had overplayed his hand and all but cursed himself. Rather than take the Lunatic's attention from John as he had intended, he'd secured it, and John's instinctive and inconvenient reaction to the question had anchored it._

John fought a good hard fight to remain still and mostly unaffected, but the moment he felt the man's hand on his leg, his entire body jerked, and tremors passed through him. After what seemed a lifetime to John, the Lunatic removed his hand from John's leg, and the audible, though restrained sound of relief seemed loud in the dank cell.

Slowly the Lunatic walked to the head of the cot and gently traced the bruise down John's cheek, stroked his fingers over John's exposed throat, and down to his chest. John's tremors increased as he pulled his head and his upper body as far as he could away from the grasping fingers. "You _have_ been touched, and it has made you afraid," his voice was as slow and what for him was sensuous. "You're afraid of me," the Lunatic almost drooled and ran both hands over John's arms and chest. As desperately as John wanted to deny the man any kind of satisfaction about being right, he knew that he couldn't as his body betrayed his fight for, and loss of, control.

"The big, bad soldier boy is afraid of me. Oh, I like that. I like that a _lot,"_ the Lunatic moved his hands lower and John tried to form the word 'no,' but no words left his frozen throat, and all he was capable of doing was shaking his head back and forth in silent denial.

At that moment, John hated himself more than he could ever remember.

He hadn't trembled when he wore enough explosives to blow up a city block.

He had walked through woods alone that had been said to have a giant hound that ripped people's flesh to bits.

He hadn't even flinched when a strange man had kidnapped him off the street and taken to a warehouse where he could easily have been killed and his body never found, less than a day after he'd met Sherlock Holmes.

He'd even faced a severed head in his refrigerator.

However, tie him to a cot in a dungeon cell and let some strange man touch him, and suddenly he was speechless and shaking like a dung brick hut in a sandstorm.

If Sherlock were even half as disgusted with him as he was at himself, the man would never want to work with him again, and John couldn't blame him. He deserved every derision the Lunatic chose to bestow on him. With that thought, John clenched his teeth and his hands turned into fists as he fought back the blurring of his vision that threatened to send him back to Afghanistan, and finally managed a small degree of self-control.

The Lunatic grinned, "ooh. So the Soldier Boy does have a bark after all." He laughed, "I am _so_ going to enjoy this."

"I'm not," John tried to joke flippantly, but it ended in a pathetic squeak as the Lunatic's hand moved down and he stroked a finger over John's flaccid shaft. Slowly, the finger became a finger and a thumb that slid over and around the head. After a moment a whole hand was sliding up and down and over and around the shaft. John couldn't look at Sherlock as completely against his will, and as most bodies do when a touch is pleasant even if unwanted, his cock started to respond.

"Ooh, so nice and soft . . . until I make it otherwise," the Lunatic grinned, and his hand slid down to the base and his fingers traced around the opening to John's body.

It was exactly that moment that the door and the walls that had kept his mind closed off, and that had been threatening to collapse since he'd woken in the cell, blasted open and apart with the force of an IED and left almost as much devastation behind.

"No!" He couldn't stop himself from shouting as two realities blended and became one.

He looked over to the corner of the cell, where one of the men in his unit was huddled, unconscious, bleeding from several wounds, though the one that would cause the most problems was the anal bleeding. John knew that if not checked and/or cleaned, the man would die of either blood loss or infection.

Screams from another room sounded through the bars on the door as crude laughter, fists, and whips striking flesh accompanied it, and John squeezed his eyes shut. John, himself, lay chained to the hard surface he'd so recently been waterboarded on and his body bore the obvious fist and boot marks from the most recent beating. Another of his men hung naked, unconscious, and bloody from chains in the wall, and the cruel laughter and speech of their captor was the broken English of one of the Insurgents they had been sent to spy on and eventually eliminate.

They'd only discovered later that their mission had merely been a distraction for the true one. John actually sighed as he watched the man and his two Lieutenants as they paraded about the room and sincerely hoped that the primary mission had been completed successfully and he and his men's sacrifices hadn't been in vain.

To their credit, none of the hand-picked team had broken, at least not under the 'regular' torture. John briefly wondered when he'd thought of torture as something in 'regular' and 'non-regular' terms, and it didn't seem like they were going to break. Maybe that was why it had suddenly become playtime in Hell.

He felt a probing at his anus, and knew that it was his turn to be raped and he fought the bonds that held him. Pain and panic took control of his mind as any and all pride he'd had flew out of him at the slight push into his body.

He babbled, and to his shame and humiliation, in badly mangled whatever Afghani dialect he could remember, for them to just kill him and not do what they were to him. However, they only laughed at him. He yanked against the chains and the hands that held him down, but his struggles only increased their laughter and their lust.


	7. I Can Bring Him Out

A/N: Hi! :D I think this brings us up to date on how many chapters I've missed posting over the last few days going by one-a-day reckoning.

**As always, Thank you my faithful Followers, Reviewers, and Favoritors! Without you I would still post, but it would be an incredibly lonely process. ;)**

Also, 'M' for a reason, and this chapter only continues our drama and angst. :D

**S/W/S/W**

_H__e babbled, and to his shame and humiliation, in badly mangled whatever Afghani dialect he could remember, for them to just kill him and not do what they were to him. However, they only laughed at him. He yanked against the chains and the hands that held him down, but his struggles only increased their laughter and their lust._

"What the fuck!?" The Lunatic demanded loudly as John suddenly struggled frantically to free himself and a string of gibberish abruptly erupted from his mouth. John's body surged upward and the Lunatic jumped away. "What the hell's the matter with him!?"

"Can't you see!?" Sherlock demanded angrily. "He was a soldier, you imbecilic moron! He was injured in the war and it should be obvious, even to one whose brain is as seriously malformed as _yours_, that he's having a flashback!" Sherlock knew that the Lunatic had actually been _lucky_ that John was chained down or he would have instantly been a dead man.

Though Sherlock had only seen him have nightmares before, he was aware that even in _those_ you didn't touch John if you didn't want a broken nose or a knee pressing into your throat, and _this_ was _so_ much worse than a normal nightmare.

As horrified as he was with what his friend was experiencing, the small part of his mind that was the scientist, the clinician, and the disassociated experimenter watched as John's entire aspect changed. He was no longer the calm, unflappable, jumper-loving John. He had become the soldier, Captain John H. Watson who was struggling for his very life and sanity and would protect them as he'd been trained to – with deadly force . . . _if_ he could escape his bonds.

The Idiotic Lunatic placed his hands on John's shoulders and tried to shake him out of whatever had possessed him, but, in John's mind, the final leg of his humiliation and torture had begun.

Any moment the man above him was going to mount him and plunge into him, and make him bleed. Fingers had already been introduced into his body and he had writhed under the pain. He couldn't go through that again, not from another man. He'd seen what had happened to the others, and he couldn't let it happen to him.

He. Just. Couldn't.

Suddenly, John screamed, and the horrible man-shriek chilled the blood of everyone who heard it. The third biggest damned man Sherlock had ever seen, flung the cell door open and joined the second one, and John threw himself violently to the side and the cot almost turned over.

"You okay?" The wide-eyed behemoth of a guard demanded of his boss as John screamed again, his eyes on the two behemoths that stood at the door.

Someone _else_ had entered the dungeon to torture John and his men, and John couldn't have that!

Not again!

This _had_ to stop and damn it, if he had to tear his fucking arms off to get out of the chains and beat their captors with the bloody wet ends to effect their escape, then that was _just_ what he was going to do!

He screamed again, though this time it was in mindless rage, and he threw himself the other way once more almost taking the cot with him. He was beyond fear, beyond thought, beyond any kind of rational control. He was all instinct and madness and the need to protect himself and what was left of his men, and another scream left him,

"_That_ has _got_ to stop!" The Lunatic scowled and stupidly, Sherlock could have told him, went to cover John's mouth with his hand.

John went after him with the only weapon he had, which was his teeth. John's teeth found purchase and he grabbed onto the Lunatic's hand and held on with every last bit of strength he had. Blood flowed and the Lunatic himself howled, even as Sherlock snorted in satisfaction. Unfortunately that didn't last long as the Lunatic bashed John in the head hard enough to daze him and to make him let go.

However, what concerned Sherlock more than anything was the damage that John was doing to his own wrists and ankles. Skin was almost literally being shredded by the metal shackles, and Sherlock knew that when John came back to himself, he was going to be in agony. Blood covered John's face from the Lunatic's wounded hand and the man's insane aspect twisted in rage as he backed away from John, who tried to once more launch himself at his phantom, and yet oh-so-real tormentors.

Sherlock knew that at any moment the Lunatic would order the guards to hurt John or even kill him, and Sherlock could _not_ allow that.

It had been excruciating as he'd been forced to listen as John had cried out in his dreams on the rare occasions at the flat when too little rest and too little food acted together to make him relive the past. However, to actually have to _witness_ how hard John had struggled against what Sherlock knew those dreams actually represented, was too hard on his mind. It was a sight, and sound, he knew he'd never escape no matter how many times he tried to delete it.

"Let me go!" He demanded and yanked on the chains. "Let me go! I can bring him out of this!" Which wasn't necessarily true of course. He had no idea if he could. He'd only attempted to bring John out of one of his dreams _once_, and had gotten clocked up side the head for his troubles. Still, there was no way in any good conscience, and he did have one despite what most people thought, though of course it seemed that it was mostly directed at John, he could let that go on. He knew that if John's struggles were not stopped then John would _seriously_ hurt himself and Sherlock did not want that . . . it would seriously impede their chances at escape for one . . . and for another, well . . . Sherlock just didn't want to see John hurt. "I can stop it!" Sherlock insisted. "But you _have_ to let me go to him!"

John let out another scream and a stream of several different Afghani dialects and the Lunatic scowled as he cradled his wounded hand. "If you try _anything_ to escape . . ." He snarled as the first guard tossed him the keys. "I'll kill you _both_!"

John screamed a fifth time and threw himself off the bed. He didn't make it of course and the metal from the handcuffs and shackles continued to bite into his skin which caused more blood to flow.

"I'm going to kill _you_ if he's hurt any _more_!" Sherlock promised, and though it may have been an empty one at that moment, it was still effective, especially when John arched upward against his bonds and screamed again.

John's screams really had thrown the Lunatic off and he desperately unlocked Sherlock. Before Sherlock completely disentangled himself from the chains that bound him, the Lunatic ran from the room as the guards re-locked the door; one staying inside while the other followed the Lunatic out.

He dashed into his camera room, threw on all three cameras and the microphones, then eagerly leaned forward in his chair as he wrapped the edge of his nightrobe around his hand. He could take care of that later. Right then, he wanted to see what his prisoners were going to do next.


	8. Come Back, John

A/N: Greetings Again! SO sorry for the delay! I'm getting to a part in the tale where I haven't done much re-writing or editing - at all - and well, got a little lazy as well.

Also, as noted last time, I do check out everyone who favorites or follows or reviews my stories, pages, and have come across MULTIPLE awesome-beyond-belief stories that i absolutely HAVE to read! :D

Also, I want to thank any and all who've done any of the 'Two F's' and the 'R' and you, as ever, have nothing less than my full and humble gratitude for taking the time! :D

'M' rated for stuff warned about in the first part and nobody involved in this but for some characters you don't recognize form the brilliant BBC Sherlock, is owned by me . . . if they were let me just say the plots would be a lot different and involve a lot less clothing on the male leads . . .

S/W/S/W

_He dashed into his camera room, threw on all three cameras and the microphones, then eagerly leaned forward in his chair as he wrapped the edge of his nightrobe around his hand. He could take care of that later. Right then, he wanted to see what his prisoners were going to do next._

Sherlock finally loosened himself from the chains, dropped to his knees to stay below John's eye-level and to appear less menacing, and slowly crawled over to John. "John," He kept his voice low. "John. They're gone now. You can stop fighting," Sherlock continued speaking as he crawled over to the bed. "You did well, Captain," he kept his voice low and calm, although he didn't know why he used John's rank. He'd heard Lestrade talk people down from bridges and drugs (himself) before, and it just seemed right, especially since it was a military flashback John was having.

"Murray?" John whispered, and lay still but for the horrible and violent trembling of his body.

Sherlock deduced quickly that Murry was probably one of the soldiers he'd been with and improvised. "Murray can't come. I'm . . ." he paused. "Holmes."

"Sherlock? What are you doing _here_?" John's voice shook as hard as his body and he finally turned his head and looked at Sherlock. However, the younger man knew that John wasn't seeing him as he was, and briefly wondered what he _was_ seeing. John's eyes widened and filled with fear and horror. "What'd they do to you? Oh gods, don't let them have hurt you like . . . like they did me."

"I'm okay, but you need to stop fighting now. They're not here, John."

"C . . . couldn't fight them . . . couldn't stop them," John squeezed his eyes shut and as hard as he fought them, the tears gathered in the corners of his eyes and stuck to his lashes. It was clear he wasn't going to let them fall and Sherlock was so amazingly proud of his friend it was hard to speak.

Gingerly he, about as far out of his depth as anyone could get, did the only thing he knew how, and took off his suit jacket; he didn't bother searching the pockets as he knew he'd already _been_ searched. He cursed himself for wearing the one jacket he hadn't had time to get the secret pockets sewn into the linings, and it was with a pang of regret that he tore the lining from the jacket and used it to gently wipe the sweat from John's chest and face.

"There wasn't anyway you could have," Sherlock said, his baritone voice soothing and as gentle as he could make it. "It's not your fault."

"How can it _not_ be my fault?" John hissed. "I am a soldier. I was trained to kill . . . to _save,_ and I couldn't do _either._ Damn it, why couldn't I save us and stop this! Sherlock, somehow this could have been prevented! I should have fought harder, I should have . . ."

"You can't predict the future, John," Sherlock's voice was sharp and he had reached the end of his patience with all the useless guilt and emotion. "Anymore than I could. Stop feeling sorry for yourself and come back to me! We can't do anything when you're like this!"

For a moment, only silence met his seemingly angry declaration, but slowly, immeasurably slowly, John's lashes covered his eyelids, where they remained briefly, and he blinked. He shook his head as if to clear it and it was with a profound relief Sherlock knew that John was back in the current world and again. He once more wiped the thin sheen of perspiration from John's skin and John groaned as his head dropped back to the mattress. He inhaled deeply, and fought the nausea that threatened.


	9. A Brief Respite

A/N: I do apologize for the length of time it took to get this chapter out. I am in the midst of re-writing and editing to the nth degree a part of this story and it is giving me a problem. It is a sensitive and emotional part, and I sincerely need to get the actions right that go with it. As a general rule, I do not include detailed sex of any kind in any story unless it furthers the plot and is integral to said plot. The scene I'm agonizing over is can not, by virtue of its kind, be pretty, but I do not want it to be so OOC that it is not convincing. I am trying to be sensitive to my subject, which is not sensitive . . . quite the conundrum and I don't want to publish substandard writings.

So, here's a chapter for you until then . . .

S/W/S/W

_For a moment, only silence met his seemingly angry declaration, but slowly, immeasurably slowly, John's lashes covered his eyelids, where they remained briefly, and he blinked. He shook his head as if to clear it and it was with a profound relief Sherlock knew that John was back in the current world and again. He once more wiped the thin sheen of perspiration from John's skin and John groaned as his head dropped back to the mattress. He inhaled deeply, and fought the nausea that threatened._

"Sherlock," he whispered, and the taller man nodded.

"You know who I am," he said with relief. "I assume this means you are back," he added quietly, and John nodded.

"It . . . it happened, didn't it? I don't remember . . . but I feel sick . . ."

"Yes. You had a flashback. You started screaming in what appeared to be several different Afghani dialects the moment the Lunatic's hands touched you. He apparently couldn't take the screaming and ran off. I assume it reminded him of the time he spent in the asylums."

"I hope I made his _ears_ bleed," John snapped, and Sherlock almost smiled; _there_ was his John.

"I, of course, would have gone after him, but . . ."

"Bad idea," John shook his head and stopped immediately as the nausea made itself known once more. "Cameras, microphones, not to mention the brick houses cleverly disguised as human guards. There's probably more where _they_ come from too," John's eyes swept the room. "You'd have been stopped and more-than-likely fatally. Mycroft and Lestrade wouldn't like it very much if I got you killed."

Sherlock frowned but refrained from pointing out it would have been his own, albeit foolish decision, to fight and that the two named would have known that and definitely _not_ blamed John. However, Sherlock also knew that _John_ would have blamed himself, and that had actually been more than _half_ the reason Sherlock _hadn't_ gone after the Lunatic.

The other half was that there was no way Sherlock could have left John and the Lunatic alone and unprotected . . . or uncomforted . . . as much as Sherlock was _able_ to comfort anyone at any rate, afterward. With a small pang of regret, he ripped into the seams of the jacket sleeves with his teeth, tore them from the jacket, and turned his attention to binding the wounds on John's wrists and ankles. John sighed as Sherlock's hands, in somewhat of an odd reversal of their usual lives, soothed his pain as much as he was able at that time.

Meanwhile, in his secure den, complete with multiple monitors, the Lunatic watched the entire proceeding and listened to the verbal exchange with a distinctly _unhealthy_ interest. He noticed that as Sherlock cared for his little dog, there was no fear, no shaking, and _most_ importantly, no screaming.

His mouth parted and his breathing quickened as Sherlock leaned over John's body. He licked his lips as the long, gentle hands trailed over John and wiped away the accumulated blood, sweat, and tears with the remains of his suit jacket.

Blue eyes looked trustingly up into silver as long fingers passed over the softness of pink lips as blood was wiped away from his face, though it was clear that the material was far too rough, and the blond grimaced in pain.

With a clear sigh of regret, Sherlock slowly removed his silk shirt and used it to wipe across John's face and continued his ministrations. The Lunatic watched as John's eyes slid shut, and arched slightly into the soothing touch.

He licked his lips and panted as his arousal let itself be felt. Slowly torturing himself, he kept his hand away from his begging erection and leaned closer to the monitor as he took in Sherlock's whipcord-lean upper body.

He almost moaned as Sherlock ran the shirt over John's well-defined chest that he, himself had so recently touched, and a wide grin, sickly in its twisted joy, slowly spread over his face and he realized what he _really_ wanted to see.

He switched on the microphone and both men stiffened as they recognized the sound. John tightened every muscle in his body so as not to shudder at the Lunatic's voice and Sherlock rested his hand on his friend's stomach, then sat, almost looming protectively over him. The tremors that had threatened never came, and John inhaled glad that he had gotten some modicum of control over himself.


	10. The 'Proposal' Such as it Is

A/N: Greetings once again! :D

**Again, I apologize for my lateness.** :D I have **solved my conundrum**, posted several parts of another story someone else requested, started yet another Sherlock one, **and still have managed to get my abode cleaned, my children (I love them so very much) taken care of, and get over two Autism melt-downs (hate that description - sounds too much like a temper tantrum when they're not really - neither here nor there; sorry).**

I really wish I were **not so mentally and writingly (?) driven into angst and drama**. I would seriously love **to be able to write a first-time Johnlock or even a Johncroft (there aren't enough of those out there) without all the drama** that is naturally occurring to me, without a lot of pain, though a small amount of torture would be okay (small torture?), and definitely without any sign of Moriarty. However, I just can't because I am not warm-fuzzy Feels oriented. and more's the pity. Anyway . . .

It is with humble gratitude that I truly wish to thank all of you; my Followers, my Favoritors, and my Reviewers! I would like to say, "I love you all," but would that make me sound weird?

Oh yeah, they aren't mine and no money. :(

SH/JW/SH/JW

_He switched on the microphone and both men stiffened as they recognized the sound. John tightened every muscle in his body so as not to shudder at the Lunatic's voice and Sherlock rested his hand on his friend's stomach, then sat, almost looming protectively over him. The tremors that had threatened never came, and John inhaled glad that he had gotten some modicum of control over himself._

"I've been watching you," The Lunatic's hated, overly pleasant voice oozed over them and they looked at each other, then back toward the speaker as he continued. "And I have to tell you that I'm most impressed. I've also had the most wonderful idea," he actually giggled and Sherlock felt the muscles in John's stomach as they clenched tightly. He absently massaged the suddenly taut muscles, and slowly they relaxed under his touch.

"Idea?" John asked, his tone strained, and the Lunatic nodded.

"Yes. You see, since I can't seem to touch you without your freaking out, and your lovely friend there can, I'm going to let him touch you for me!"

"What?" John's eyes went round and his mouth fell open as Sherlock jumped up, obviously ready to deliver an eviscerating deduction of the Lunatic, his ancestry, and no doubt those of every pet he'd had the misfortune to have ever owned.

"Sherlock," John looked into the camera over him. "Calm down. Don't give him a reason to come in here." John swallowed, hard, and looked up into the camera. "Just exactly, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I like what that little scene you just played out was doing for me. I especially like the lengths the Alabaster god went to, to try and heal his little mortal plaything. So sweet, so tender, so _delicious,"_ his tone made what Sherlock had done for John seem almost pornographic, and Sherlock closed his eyes as the Lunatic's twisted logic presented itself to his mind.

"You say you're not together," the Lunatic continued. "You, the ever in-control Detective, and you the dear oh-so-not gay Doctor. You are just friends," they almost heard the slurp of saliva as he drooled. "But you could be so much more, couldn't you? With just the right impetus, it would be so easy for you to be partners in _every_ sense of the word," they heard the salacious shiver in his voice. "But you aren't. You won't because you respect each others' boundaries _far_ too much to cross that last oh-so-delectable line. But, you see, I still want my revenge. But I _don't_ want the screaming. Oh, what _more_ of a revenge than to have _you_ take him?"

"It's bad enough that you have trapped us here and _you_ were threatening to hurt him. I will not be used as your surrogate rapist!" Sherlock snarled into the camera across from him and curled his hands into fists. Exactly what though, those fists were curled at; the man, the situation, or his own helplessness he didn't know. "I will _not_ hurt him for _your_ perverted pleasure."

"What the hell makes you think you have any _choice_ in what _you_ get to do!?" The Lunatic suddenly demanded, his anger overriding his attempt at being pleasant and 'normal'. It was an obvious effort that he dragged his ragged breathing under control, and when next he spoke, his voice shook with the effort to continue to be pleasant.

"Look what you made me do," he exhaled slowly. "Really, losing one's temper is _so_ counter-productive and really _not_ acceptable in public is it? I've worked _so_ hard on learning to deal with my anger issues, and yet, here you are breaking my hard-won control . . . again. You also made me lose my hard-on and _that _is unforgivable."

"A-ny-way," it was clear that the Lunatic was still picking up the pieces of his false persona, and he swallowed audibly. "Where was I? Oh. Yes. No choice . . ." he paused and his voice turned thoughtful. "No actually, come to think of it, you _do_ have a choice, _two_ of them actually," they heard him shift, and gazed at each other worriedly.

"May I direct your attention to the vents at the top of the walls?" He waited as John and Sherlock's eyes automatically went to them and he continued. "Those, as you may have already _deduced_," he somehow managed to make it into a curse word. "Are gas vents, which I can use to simply gas you into unconsciousness, re-chain you _Consulting Detective_," again, his tone made the word foul. "To the wall, and send in my people – you've already met them – and release them on our Doctor friend after you've both woken up."

"You see, from here in my monitor room, I can simply turn the sound off and I won't hear his screams. I'll still get off and you'll be forced to watch, and _maybe_ I'll let you pick up what's left of him before I kill you both just as your precious _brother_ comes to rescue you," he giggled and licked his lips. "The second choice is that you, and you alone, can do him. I'll even be generous here and give you gentlemen time to talk this over," the microphone clicked off, and John blinked at Sherlock.

"I would rather you do it, you know this, Sherlock . . ." John swallowed and Sherlock looked away.

"As I'm sure, he knew you would. Clearly," Sherlock said. "That choice was no choice at all."

"The thing is," John licked his lips. "You also know that he's absolutely insane. He's crazy, Sherlock; you know he's not going to let you do anything slowly. He's going to make you hurt me . . ."

"I won't," Sherlock's voice was low. "I made it good for you in Paris, I'll make it good here. Then when the time comes, I will kill him," Sherlock said, his tone steady, solid, and final.

John nodded, "stand in line," he suddenly blinked as his vision tunneled, and Sherlock collapsed to his knees beside him.

"Oh dear gods, no," John couldn't stop the tremble that took over his body.

"He was just . . . playing with us. He turned the gas . . . on us anyway," Sherlock said and his voice faded as both men lost consciousness.


	11. Not Able to Stop

A/N: This is going to be a rather longer chapter than I generally like to write, but I couldn't find a good place to chop it off without losing the effect and the pacing.

**And, to my new Followers and my Established ones, as well as any new Reviewers or Favoritors who happen to find me, as always you have my thanks** for your taking the time and effort to read my stories. **Also, being that this is what I consider to be on the 'Home Stretch' so to speak, I think this is a good time to remind people that this is the second in a series of three stories,** and may end unsatisfactorily for some. Please be assured that the third story will, hopefully, deal with any questions.

Finally, once more, please remember that** this is an 'M' rated story**, and as such, should be read only by Adults. I place a high value on Honor, especially personal Honor, and as a Mom, appreciate the adherence to the rules of your household and your country. :D Thanks! Oh, and if you need to, the warnings are in chapter 1.

Not mine.

SH/JW/SH/JW

_"__He was just . . . playing with us. He turned the gas . . . on us anyway," Sherlock said and his voice faded as both men lost consciousness._

The return to consciousness was slow and painful, and John couldn't keep the small moan from his lips as he squeezed his eyes shut and tried not to move.

"The pain and disorientation will recede in a few moments," Sherlock's voice reached his ears though it sounded strangely soft; almost subdued. John barely squinted toward the voice that came from the bottom of the cot near his feet.

He knew was still chained, and his shoulder was in blazing agony at that point, both from his struggles and the enforced position, though he realized that not much time had passed since he and Sherlock had been gassed. He processed that information, albeit slowly, as his brain didn't seem to be working very well. Briefly he attempted once more to struggle against his bonds, but realized that he was just as useless as before and he stilled.

He finally opened his eyes, though just enough to gaze in the general direction Sherlock's voice had come from. "Did they . . ." He started, but Sherlock shook his head.

"No," his friend answered in the same subdued tone as before, and finally John opened his eyes fully. He gazed down at the taller man who seemed to be almost hiding behind the bottom railing of the cot.

A half-second later his eyes flew open in shock and he stared at Sherlock's completely naked body and any residual pain that may have been from the gas was forgotten.

"Oh dear gods, Sherlock . . ." John's voice was a mere croak in his throat. "Did they . . ." He couldn't finish, and once again Sherlock shook his head.

"No," he answered, though he looked away from John, and seemed to grip the end of the cot in a deathgrip as he gazed at a spot somewhere on the far end of the wall. A feeling of relief passed through John that all but weakened him and threatened to make him pass out again, though Sherlock spoke again and his voice grounded the doctor. "Apparently they came in and undressed me while you were out. I do not know where my clothing went."

John blasphemed strongly and shook off the last effects of whatever gas they had used to incapacitate them and inhaled as he contemplated Sherlock's more-than-unusual actions. "Then what's happened? Happening? Why did he drug us?" He shifted, tying to find a more comfortable position on the cot, and Sherlock's eyes flickered to him, than away. Sherlock

wrapped his arms around the footrail of the cot, almost as if he were trying to hold himself there.

"Sherlock?" John questioned, his voice suddenly steady. "What's happened?"

"I've been drugged, John," he answered and held out his arm. John squinted and fear shot through him and he tried to look at Sherlock's face, but the man looked away, obviously ashamed. "I believe it happened the same time we were unconscious."

"Do you know what with?" John's voice was low and he couldn't help but think about Sherlock's past history of drug use and prayed that there would be no relapse.

"I'm not sure," Sherlock admitted. "But the resulting symptoms don't feel like anything resembling cocaine . . ." he suddenly shivered and John swallowed. "Well, one, but that one's . . ." he wrapped his other arm around the footrail and knelt on the floor, as he leaned his forehead on the railing. "That is the overriding one at the moment . . ." he grunted, as if in pain, and John wished to hell he could move.

"Come _on_, Sherlock. You _have_ to talk to me," John insisted.

"He's still going through with his plan of making me be with you, but he changed the rules."

"I don't think there are any rules for this kind of thing _to_ be changed. It's all 'play as you go'," John frowned deeply. Sherlock simply buried his face in his arms as his long fingers gripped his own flesh until his knuckles were white, and John knew there'd be bruises on the man's arms.

"Listen to me, John!" Sherlock snapped out, his patience stretched seemingly to the limit as he gritted his teeth against whatever was causing him so much pain. "I . . . I believe from the . . ." Pain twisted his face, and his entire body shuddered. "Effects," he ground out. "That some . . . concentrated form of Yo . . . Yohimbe was involved as well as something . . . something else to drastically reduce my in . . . inhibitions, though I . . . I don't have all the data . . . to ascertain which . . ." He let out a loud cry and every muscle in his body contracted as he pressed gainst the metal footrail and all but banged his head against it.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, horror-stricken, but Sherlock merely shook his head.

"I can do this!" He exclaimed as sweat beaded on his head and ran down the sides of his face. "With . . . with my history of drug use . . . I can defeat this. I can . . . simply . . . ride it out."

John gazed at the top of his friend's dark hair, and swallowed quietly. "How long ago did all this happen?" He asked, and Sherlock shrugged.

"I . . . I have lost track of time . . ." he fought valiantly to keep the moan of pain and forced desire inside, but it was no good, and he bit down hard on the metal rail; hard enough for his gums to bleed.

"Sherlock . . ." John began, his voice low, but Sherlock shook his head and his teeth scraped against the metal, stripping away the dull, grey paint and leaving a shiny steel trail.

"John, please. For . . . for your own sake," Sherlock panted. "Don't . . . don't talk. Don't move. Don't do anything. I . . . I can't look at you or talk to you or anything. I'll get through this. It has . . ." He panted. "It has to wear off . . . soon."

"Oh pretty, pretty man," the Lunatic's voice sounded over the speakers as his laughter grated against both their nerves. "You'd like to think so, wouldn't you? But it will simply be _hours_. Do you not think I took your history into account when I figured the amount to give you? It's already making you hurt, and soon you won't have any _choice_ but to do what I want you to do," his insane giggle filled the room.

"No! I won't! I won't hurt him! You can _not_ make me rape him!" Sherlock all but screamed and punched his hands against the bed-frame until blood dripped from his badly skinned knuckles.

John's heart all but broke in his chest as he witnessed the struggle that Sherlock was going through to keep from him. Sherlock was almost wrapped around the metal frame in a ball as sweat ran from his body and he trembled with the effort he made not to go anywhere _near_ John.

"Listen to me you crazy-arsed son of a bitch!" John yelled at the ceiling more angry than he could remember being in a very _long_ time, and Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut. "You'll _pay_ for this! I will make _sure_ you pay for this! _All_ of this!"

"Shut up, John!" Sherlock ground out harshly. "Just . . . shut up! I can't keep fighting if _you_ keep talking!"

John gazed sorrowfully at his drugged, desperate friend, and sighed. Blood had started to trickle from the corner of Sherlock's mouth from where he had bitten the insides of his cheeks, half-moon shaped notches were gouged into his arms where his own nails cut him, and bruises had started to form where he pressed himself against the metal frame. John couldn't stand it any longer and he swallowed, hoping to hell he knew what he was doing.

"Sherlock," he said, his voice soft and gentle, and Sherlock's body stilled. "Sherlock, look at me."

"I can't. I won't," Sherlock shook his head and John persevered.

"You can. And you will. And you know it. Please, Sherlock, look at me."

Slowly, as if he couldn't help himself, Sherlock raised his head and the lost, pained, desperate, yet oh-so-lustful expression on his face all but destroyed the doctor. John vowed, with everything in him that no matter _what_ kind of information this man had that Mycroft had been so _desperate_ to have, the Lunatic was _not_ going to escape his _revenge_ when he got to take it.

There would be no jail, no threats; just cold, hard punishment and revenge. And there was also no '_if he survived_'.

No.

The Lunatic had created his own death certificate and John was going to be the one who signed off on it. He scowled up at the corner of the room where the camera was, and _knew_ that somehow, someway, he was _going_ to escape and make all of them pay for what they had done to Sherlock, and yes, to him.

However, right at that moment, his first priority and duty was to Sherlock, and he kept his voice calm, even, and gentle.

"Sherlock, you can't keep fighting and you know it. I want you to come to me."

"No," a look of anger and pain and denial twisted Sherlock's handsome visage into a grotesque mask of its normal ethereal beauty, and John shook his head.

"Sherlock, you _have_ to. You're hurting yourself . . ."

"I'll hurt _you_ worse. You don't know what you're saying. I can fight this. I just have to be stronger."

"Sherlock, let me help you. Come to me. Do what you have to, and we'll deal with whatever comes next. But you _need_ to come to me."

A small moan left Sherlock and slowly, he started to uncurl himself from around the metal bed frame. "John, please don't do this. I can't stop myself."

"Then don't," John's voice dropped to a whisper and he smiled gently. "It's okay. Come here, Sherlock."

Unable to resist, Sherlock slowly crawled up the bed until he was beside John. Sherlock held his head up and a badly shaking hand touched John's hair. "I'm sorry," he whispered as he bent ever closer. "I'm so sorry."

"It's not your fault, Sherlock. I don't blame you. I'll never blame you," John was almost mesmerized by the misery-filled, drugged, glasz orbs that suddenly locked onto his face. He stilled as Sherlock touched his body with his other hand and settled beside him.


	12. Forced

A/N: Well, here we are again. Okay, this is the chapter that drove me insane. I have written it, re-written it, erased it, then wrote it again (twice), edited it five times, and then tweaked the editing so many times I lost count, read it out loud twice and tweaked it again both times, and am sick of it and mostly pleased with the way it turned out. **This is the rape scene. I tried to make it as non-graphic as I could** and still keep the emotion that will be so necessary for upcoming parts and the last story in this arc.

An 'M' rated story and slash.

They are prolly glad they are not mine.

As always ,thank you oh-so-wonderful Reviewers, Followers, and Favoritors! Oh, and if you want to PM me in addition to reviewing, I shall do my best to respond to you. I'm sorry I'm not very good at responding to my reviews, except with my gratitude expressed here . . . and believe me, I mean every word I say. Thank you seems to be such a small way to express my feelings, but I mean it from the bottom of my heart (Though really, our brain is the center of our emotions).

SH/JW/SH/JW

_"__It's not your fault, Sherlock. I don't blame you. I'll never blame you," John was almost mesmerized by the misery-filled, drugged, glasz orbs that suddenly locked onto his face. He stilled as Sherlock touched his body with his other hand and settled beside him._

Sherlock lowered his head and his lips covered John's. For a moment, he stayed immobile, almost as if he asked permission, and John gave it. A soft moan of satisfaction as his body got what it had been craving left Sherlock and he delved deeper into the warm mouth that opened obediently beneath his.

"Oh gods, John," Sherlock groaned into the mouth he invaded. "You taste so good. But you feel even better," his pupils, already blown open from the drug all but filled the silver spheres and John swallowed. Sherlock ran his hands over John's body and suddenly straddled the doctor's waist, his rigid member pressing against Johns flaccid one. "I need you so badly."

"Whatever you need," John whispered and shivered as Sherlock placed his hands on the headrail of the cot and slowly walked them up the wall. He dragged his hot and fully engorged cock up John's body until it was level with his chin.

One hand trailed down the wall and onto John's face. He slipped his thumb into John's mouth. Instinctively he knew what the man wanted and opened his mouth as wide as it would go. Suddenly and without any kind of warning, the thumb was gone and Sherlock replaced it with his solid rod. John knew that the loving gentle man he had known was gone, only to be replaced by the lust-driven, drugged one. Sherlock pressed forward so hard and so fast that John gagged and would have definitely thrown up if Sherlock hadn't pulled out a bit.

John forced his head back as far as it would go to accommodate what had been shoved so brutally into his mouth. For a moment, John couldn't breathe as panic took him and he struggled against the handcuffs as his eyes widened. Sherlock pulled out briefly, and John gathered a breath quickly. The next time Sherlock plunged into his mouth again, John was ready. He relaxed his jaw and his lips and formed more of an 'o' shape as his breath came in short, heavy pants. He shoved his tongue down as far as it would go as his own saliva seemed to try and drown him. He tried to swallow it, but the plunging cock wouldn't let him, and finally he had no choice but to let the excessive amount of drool flow the sides of his mouth with every outward draw.

John looked up at the body over him, and saw that Sherlock's head was tilted upward, his eyes closed in ecstasy and John wondered if Sherlock even knew anymore whose mouth he was in. John couldn't stop the shaking of his body nor the tears of pain that, unbidden, leaked from his eyes as his abused mouth and jaw started to ache abominably.

Guttural sounds of pleasure came from above him, and Sherlock all but yanked himself out of John's mouth with an audible 'pop'. Finally able to breathe, huge gasping breaths heaved from John's abused throat as he tried not to taste what he knew was Sherlock's pre-cum on his tongue.

"Not enough," Sherlock groaned caught in the madness of his drugged body and moved his body downward. "Have to have you. Have to be inside you now!"

He knelt between John's spread legs and almost crazed with need, Sherlock lifted John's hips up as high as they would go until John's center was even with his shaft. Slowly, as if mesmerized, he moved his hand up, and touched John's opening with his thumb, and slowly stroked downward. He shoved his still-damp thumb into the opening, but it wasn't wet enough to prevent any pain, and John smothered the cry that left him.

"Still not enough," Sherlock said, his voice rough and his thumb was replaced by the head of his stiffened member as he pushed against John's tight center.

"Sherlock," John hated his voice. He hated the weakness, the fear, the absolutely detestable repressed sob as his entire body shook. He knew the time had come and he thought back to Paris, and wanted to scream as he missed it. He missed the kissing, the touching, the absolute gentleness with which he'd been treated.

"Not dry. Gods, not dry," he pleaded.

He felt, rather than saw Sherlock's body as it inched forward. He gripped the metal railing as hard as he could in preparation, though he tried to force his lower body to relax as much as it could to make the penetration easier. He looked down and his eyes were riveted on the length and diameter that was soon going to become a part of him.

Sherlock spit into his hand and mixed his saliva with what was left from John's mouth and his own pre-cum, and pushed the head of his shaft into the constricted entrance. A moan left the detective, and John stifled the howl and fought not to tense up as he was brutally opened. However, Sherlock drew out again and pressed just the head in once more. He repeated that motion several more times until it became easier to penetrate. Something within him decided that John was ready and he grasped John's hips and plunged him down.

John's next cry was little less than a scream, and the still-drugged Sherlock heard it as passion rather than pain and fear, and he lost himself in his own carnal needs. Other than the pain-filled scream, John kept any other sounds inside him, though he couldn't prevent the tears that spilled down the sides of his face no matter how the soldier that he was tried to remain stoic and masked.

At that point though, oddly enough, it wasn't himself he cried for, though the physical pain he was in was a large part of it.

No, right then, John grieved for Sherlock. He grieved for what he knew the man was going to go through when the drug left his system and he was left to deal with the memories his mind would provide; provided the the drug didn't steal them.

John almost hoped it would.

Hell, Sherlock had all but tortured himself with what they had done in Paris, and that was when _both_ had been willing. John almost wished that Rohypnol, rather than Yohimbe had been used; at least then, Sherlock would, without a _doubt_ not have remembered this. Perhaps the Lunatic had taken that into account, and that was exactly why he had used Yohimbe. He wouldn't have _wanted_ Sherlock to forget.

"So good," Sherlock moaned as his toes jabbed into the mattress and he gripped John's hips ever tighter in his drug-strengthened hands. "Wanted this so long. Wanted _you_," he said, and his rhythm sped up.

John didn't want it. At least, that was what he _tried_ to tell himself. But as Sherlock's dark head was thrown back and the pale expanse of his endless neck was presented to him, he realized he was lying.

Oh, he _wasn't_ lying about not wanting Sherlock like he was being _had_by him.

No, _that_ was the truth.

But, he wanted him like in Paris. He wanted him like Sherlock had started taking him a few minutes ago. He wanted the loving, gentle Sherlock. The one who cared about how he felt, and how he made someone else feel.

John wanted Sherlock to set him on fire with passion. He wanted to see Sherlock _himself_ set alight with passion, not with empty lust and drugs. Although, he supposed, if that was the only way he could have Sherlock, then the unaccompanied lust wouldn't be too bad either, just leave out the damned drugs.

After this though, provided they both lived through it and he could keep his mind together and not be solidly ensconced in an asylum fighting a war he was no longer in, he knew there would never be another chance for Sherlock and him.

"End this, Sherlock," John all but sobbed as the loss of a lover he had never known and wouldn't know shattered his heart.

Over him the black-eyed stranger whose face reflected nothing but carnal satisfaction, nodded. "Yes," he panted. "That's it. Beg me," he said.

And John did. Without any kind of leftover pride, he begged. It wasn't long before Sherlock's body froze into immobility as an almost inhuman howl left him and John grimaced as he was filled with Sherlock's heated essence.

For a moment, there was no other sound in the room except for the harsh breathing of an ended climax. John fought back the whimper of misery and pain that left him as Sherlock pulled out of his body and he was unceremoniously dropped back to the mattress. A moment later, the taller man collapsed in exhaustion and John watched as his eyelids slid shut.

John decided that being unconscious really sounded 'a bit good' at that moment and immediately, action followed thought.


	13. Damaged Goods

A/N: Greetings once Again! This is the LAST chapter in this part and I am SO amazingly grateful and thankful that you all have stuck through with me on this! :D Thank you my Followers, My Favoritors, and My Reviewers! You were my encouragement and my inspiration, and without whom none of this would have happened! (So you only have yourselves to blame) ;)

Anyway, this story is 'M', and the next one will be too. And the guys, much to my woe and their unending joy, do not belong to me, I just like to get them out, dust them off, patch them up, and let my mind play with them. :D So, of course, there is no money made by me from them. THAT all belongs to the wonderful Steven Moffat and the gorgeous Mark Gatiss!

SH/JW/SH/JW

_John decided that being unconscious really sounded 'a bit good' at that moment and immediately, action followed thought._

He had no idea of how long he had been unconscious, but when he awoke, he was cold; very cold, and he hurt. Actually, that was a serious understatement. He was in agony. He was in agony and he was beyond freezing going into glacial.

"Sh . . ." he couldn't get his mouth to work and he cleared his throat and groaned. "Sherlock," he tried again in little more than a raspy whisper, his tortured jaws barely able to open enough to let the words out.

"John," his name came from across the room, and slowly John swiveled his aching neck to where the voice had come from. He squinted and saw Sherlock as he sat on the floor against the wall where he had previously been chained. His legs were drawn up to his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around them as if he were holding himself together.

"You . . . okay?" John croaked and Sherlock buried his face in his knees and covered his head with his hands.

"I am no longer under the influence of the drugs," came the muffled answer. "If that's what you mean. I . . . I checked you over . . . after I woke," Sherlock said hesitantly and still not looking up. "There was some damage . . . minimal tearing . . . but the bleeding stopped . . ."

Suddenly, they both heard a noise from one of the speakers and the chuckle that came from it was almost manic. "Oh you have no idea how awesome that was!" The loathed voice of their kidnapper said cheerfully. "I hope you know that I recorded _that_ for posterity! Do you remember it, Sherlock? Do you remember how it felt to invade your friend's body?"

Sherlock merely covered more of his head with his hands, and John looked from the Lunatic's voice to Sherlock.

"Sherlock," John's pain-filled voice shook, and the taller man slowly raised his head though he didn't look at his friend. "I'm cold."

"I can't help that. They took my coat," Sherlock said, his voice flat and monotone, and John shook his head.

"I know. Come here."

"No. Not that again," Sherlock shook his head, and John swallowed as the room blurred, and he squeezed his eyes shut. "I am trying to go into my Mind Palace, John. Do _not_ interrupt me."

John knew that he was losing Sherlock to his own mind and misery, and that was the one thing he could _not_ do. He _needed_ Sherlock to be strong. He needed Sherlock to be the logical one, because that's what he was in their comfortable dynamic. Emotions didn't suit him, and they wouldn't do either of them any good, especially not then. Once more, the cave . . . cell, dammit! Was starting to close in on him, and he couldn't let it.

"This bastard's winning, Sherlock. I'm in shock and barely holding on here and if you take your mind wherever you go when you go, I'll be lost. I can't do this alone. I stood up against the Taliban. You stood up against Moriarty _and_ every damned one of his network for fuck's sake. We can't let a no account little prick like this break us. Now. Come. Here. This damned _cave_ is cold!"

"Cell, John," Sherlock's voice shook with the residual effects of the come down from the drug (at least that's what he tried to convince himself it was) but he stood and slowly, with as much dignity as he could, made his way over to his friend. "It's not a cave, it's a cell," misery-dampened eyes gazed into watery blue ones, and Sherlock gingerly lay himself beside John.

"You keep asking me if I'm going to be all right, and telling me not to go into my mind, but I am not the one doing the retreating right now, you are," it was clear that Sherlock was trying to gain some sort of normalcy, and John was grateful for it. "I should be asking you if _you_ are going to be all right; especially once we get out of here." Sherlock watched as John's eyes closed.

"Eventually. I suppose. Don't blame yourself. There's nothing you could have done. They would have killed us anyway," John said, and Sherlock sighed.

"I think I remember hearing those words somewhere before," he whispered, and for a long while there was silence. Sherlock was sure that John had fallen asleep and he physically started when John spoke again.

"I guess they're done for the night, Murray. You might as well get some sleep before it starts again."

Sherlock turned sharply and his hands clenched into fists and his stomach all but twisted with nausea as he gazed into John's glazed and distant eyes. "Oh no, John. Don't do this to me. I can't handle this right now."

"Don't . . . don't let them touch me again. Stay with me." He closed his eyes and Sherlock leaned his head against the cot, and sighed.

"I won't, John," he said. "I won't let anyone hurt you again; not even me," Sherlock promised and John smiled, then opened his eyes and Sherlock was ensnared by the gaze of absolute faith that John had in him.

"I trust you," John smiled and pressed himself against the solid yet lean muscle of Sherlock's body and was asleep a moment later.

Sherlock didn't know how much more time had passed as he lay vigil over John. He suspected it hadn't been too long when he and John were jolted by the sudden sound of gunfire as it echoed and rolled through what was obviously stone corridors.

John jerked awake with a scream and a wild-eyed stare as his already taut, high-strung nerves shattered. Sherlock jumped up and stood with his fists raised, determined that _no_ one else would hurt his John and that he would die, if he had to, to protect him.

However, as the door to their cell was seemingly blasted open, the Lunatic all but literally _flew_ into the room via the hard sole of an uncharacteristically livid and violent Lestrade's boot, and an additional push from a stone-faced Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at his brother and couldn't decide between being incensed with him or on this extremely rare occasion, glad to see him. However, John was his first priority and he knelt beside him.

"John," he said as he used the same voice he'd spoken to him the first time he'd been caught in the flashback. "It's okay. You need to calm down. It's Lestrade and Mycroft," he paused. "The British Government. They found us. You're safe."

"Safe, Sherlock?" John asked. "That's somewhat debatable," he chuckled exhaustedly and somewhat ruefully.

"Oh good. You're back," Sherlock said, relieved and all but scrubbed his hands over his face as they stared at their rescuers.

"Better late than never, I suppose," Sherlock said to them and gazed at the quivering lump that lay on the floor bleeding from several injuries. "I can see you took care of our problem. There were . . ."

"Guards, yes," Mycroft said. "They are no longer anyone's problem," Mycroft inclined his head at the Lunatic, and Lestrade immediately took off his coat and handed it to Sherlock, who draped it over John. "His computer records are now in our possession, Sherlock," Mycroft said as he removed his own suit jacket and handed that, as well as two small keys to his brother.

With a grimace of disgust, Sherlock tied his brother's coat around his waist, and Mycroft sighed. "That was supposed to go around your _shoulders_," he said, and Sherlock snorted.

"It would hardly have covered 'the important bits', as John would have said, and you know it. I have no wish to walk around with only my brother's jacket barely covering my arse with half of the British service and Scotland Yard out there leering at me," he bent over the cot and unlocked John's handcuffs and ankles . . . and everyone ignored the way his hands shook as he did so.

"Please, Sherlock," Mycroft frowned and all but rolled his eyes. "Do give me some credit. This was a _secret_ mission, remember? I'd hardly call out the entire Yard or even my own Secret Service as you call them, for this. However, there _is_ a government ambulance with quite competent paramedics on standby . . ."

"No!" John startled those gathered and shook his head. "_No_ one's going to stare at us being wheeled out," he scowled. "With what we've been through there's going to be no weakness. We're going to _walk_ out of here on our own."

"You seem injured, Doctor Watson," Mycroft frowned. "I am not sure that's such a good idea."

"With all due respect, the British Government got us into this mess, and we're _walking_ _out_," his voice was raspy and hoarse and he closed his eyes, obviously in pain.

"As for me," Sherlock swallowed. "I would appreciate being allowed to look at the records of the last two days myself . . . with no interference, before anyone else does. There's something . . ." he grimaced as John tried to choke back the cry of pain as he brought his arms down from over his head and pulled his legs together. His abused muscles trembled from the effort of trying to move after being restrained for so very long.

"We saw what he made you do," Lestrade said quietly as Sherlock all but pulled John to a sitting position and the doctor choked back another pained cry. "It's how we got the drop on him. He was . . . distracted by it."

"Did anyone else . . ." John whispered, and Mycroft shook his head.

"No. I made sure of it. I have the only copy."

"I want it gone," John scowled as he gazed at Sherlock.

"Evidence," Lestrade protested weakly and John shook his head.

"Gone."

"It will be done," Mycroft nodded though he didn't say _when_ it would be and he hoped no one had caught that little 'slip'. "Now, if you two are ready to leave, I will send my men in here to do the final Clean-up."

"Sherlock," John's voice was suddenly far weaker than previous, and he shook his head as if to clear it. "I really hate to do this, but I need some help to walk. I know I said I didn't want to appear to be weak, but you have to admit, it's been a hell of a couple of days."

Sherlock shook his head. "You would be better with the paramedics, John," he said.

"No!" John suddenly yelled and all but forced himself to stand and reached out for Sherlock's arm to steady himself. However, it was almost with a jerk that Sherlock tried to pull his arm away. John scowled and grasped it with both hands and though he wobbled badly, he stayed upright. "I need you to help me. _You_ need to help me. No one else will know what happened . . ."

"Oh, but everyone _will_," the Lunatic suddenly re-made his presence known and laughed hysterically. "_I'll_ tell them _all._ I'll _scream_ it to every _one_ of the Yarders, I'll tell _every_ single prisoner, I'll call a mother fucking press conference and tell _them_! I'll tell everyone how I made the great Sherlock Holmes, the man who beat Moriarty and all his disciples, _rape_ his little sidekick while high on drugs. They'll all believe me," he turned his lunatic gaze on Sherlock and a grin lit his face. "_Especially_ because of the articles from," he paused. "Before. I'm certain that a Miss Kitty Reilly will be _most_ interested in _this."_

Sherlock went absolutely white-faced and looked completely nauseated as he glanced at John, then away. He was the personification of horrified shame as he wrapped himself in his arms. His hands clenched so tightly around his upper arms that his fingernails left half-moon shaped indentations in his skin. Everyone in the room saw the clear mental withdrawl into himself and John suddenly saluted Mycroft.

"Sir! Permission to speak! Sir!" John snapped out, and Sherlock shook his head.

"Oh, John, not now," he whispered, but Mycroft looked between John and Sherlock, and Sherlock swallowed, though he didn't meet anyone's eyes.

"Flashback to the war," he explained quietly. "He . . ." He paused, unsure of what to say, but his head fell to his chest in defeat. "He was captured and . . . tortured in a place like this," limply, he waved his arm around the cell. "He's been slipping in and out of them . . . the flashbacks . . . this entire time."

"But I am not military. There is no reason that he should salute me," Mycroft frowned, and the Lunatic giggled.

"But he recognizes _you_ as the oh-so-obviously highest rank. Oh, I love this," he almost sang. "I've driven him crazy. Crazier than me. And I've crushed _him_," he bobbed his head at Sherlock, who refused to look up or even be baited, which proved exactly how true the Lunatic's word were. He tried to break into a dance, but Lestrade yanked on his cuffs.

"You may speak, Captain," Mycroft finally answered, realizing that John was not going to move until he had said something.

"Sir! Permission to speak with the prisoner! Sir!" John dropped the salute and nodded at the Lunatic.

"Granted," Mycroft raised an eyebrow and with an impressively smart turn on his heel; made

even _more_ impressive by the fact that he wore no shoes and could barely stand on his _own_, John stood in front of the prisoner.

Suddenly, John let out a short but extremely _angry_ string of words in a language no one understood, and before anyone could move, John's hand was curled into a fist. That fist shot out, and with a resounding crack, punched the Lunatic directly in his chest as hard as he could, _precisely_ over his heart.

A moment later the Lunatic gasped for breath, his face lost all color, and he dropped to the ground obviously, and instantaneously, _dead._

"Well," Mycroft said as silence filled the cell. "That was certainly impressive . . . and unexpected. I will have to add yet another to the list for the Clean-up crew now. That will certainly save the taxpayers some money. The Prime Minister will be happy to hear that, I guess."

"And the recordings?" Sherlock asked, still in a hoarse whisper and Mycroft blinked.

"Are now useless. There is no need to give a dead man due process. Poor man tried to escape and died of a heart attack. I am quite sure he will be neither missed nor mourned."

"Not that with John suffering from a flashback we could make much of a case against him anyway. Even if we did go to court," Lestrade put in quietly as he looked at John pityingly.

"Thank you, Sirs," John saluted Mycroft and then Lestrade.

"Murray," John looked at Sherlock. "Would you mind helping me out of here? I don't think I can stand much longer on my own and I _won't_ be seen as weak. I just _won't. _Not after all we've been through."

It was clear that neither Sherlock nor John actually looked as if they could stand much longer, period, and Sherlock shook his head. "You can't ask me to help you. Not after . . ." he licked his lips. "Surely you'd prefer Lestrade to . . ."

"No, Murray," John shook his head. "We started this mission together, we're going to walk out together. We survived and they thought we wouldn't."

Sherlock gazed forlornly at his brother and the DI. There was no way, as Sherlock, he could even _begin_ to touch John; it was just too painful and brought too many memories to the surface. However, _if_ John believed him to be whoever-the-hell Murray was, it would be all right. Maybe he could pretend to be him too, and get _both_ of them through this.

Gently, he took John's arm in his and avoiding the wrist and the bruises, wrapped his other arm around the smaller man's waist. John leaned into Sherlock's warmth and strength, and together, followed by Mycroft and Lestrade, they limped out of the cell.

They exited through the maze of hallways, past the four guards who had been cleverly disguised as brick walls, but who were then no more than cold, rigid doorstops, and out into the night.

There were surprisingly few cars, and of the ones that were there, Sherlock disinterestedly noted that they were all sleek and black. There was only one unremarkable ambulance visible, and Sherlock and John limped toward it.

It was with displeasure that Mycroft and Lestrade noted that Sherlock separated from John almost immediately, and sat as far away from him as he could. Paramedics swathed both men in comforting orange blankets as they performed their jobs efficiently and quickly. John was helped into the ambulance, lay down on a bed, and Sherlock was sat next to him. The doors closed and the ambulance, with Lestrade following, left the area.

With almost a sigh of defeat, Mycroft turned his mind to the task at hand and gave a few quiet orders to a small number of his people. They opened several body bags and ran into the complex, intent on cleaning up the mess that night's work had provided.

Eventually, everyone left the area, but for one grey-haired, older man. He looked around as if to make sure the area was completely empty, pressed what looked like a Blue Tooth against his ear, and spoke quietly.

"Observable, but ill-favored, change."

End of Part 2


End file.
